I stared at the general command printed in bold black letter on the
whiteboard. My first thought was that the question, like most
of the questions we were given each day for journal, was a large
waste of my time and mental capabilities. I glanced around the
large, airy room containing small, uncomfortable desks and large,
obnoxious pupils. My teacher stood at his desk, probably reveling in
the fact he could make adolescent teenagers on the brink of adulthood
describe their self-absorbed lives in only one sentence. Of course,
other students were dutifully penning down some kind of sentence to
describe their lives. I sighed and rolled my eyes,
chewing on the tip of my pen in hopes that ingesting it would help in
writing a measly little sentence.

My
English teacher was a demented nerd. That didn't help my
situation any, or even offer a flicker of any imaginational spark,
but the fact that I had thought it helped make me feel better.
Perhaps I was procrastinating the answer with ignorance.

How in the world was I supposed to sum my life up in only one
sentence? In all actuality, my life would take a novel, but I
hated writing anything longer than a page. Thus I sat in an
English honors class. The contradiction hadn't fazed me thus
far.

The question continued to stare at me. And so I wrote the first
thought occurrence that flashed through my brain when I thought about
my meager existence:

My life is a variable sequence of unorthodox and hazardous
situations contorted coincidentally together to create the purgatory
that is my life.

I liked to use big words, especially with a generation that enjoyed
using "like" about fifteen times in the same sentence.
Whether or not my life truly was like that would be a debatable
topic, only because no one would understand what it meant and would
need the aid of a dictionary. My teacher, Mr. Stilts, was one who
would not. He would see right through my choice of large meaningless
words, but I didn't care. In my estimations, I had greater
problems to deal with.

My
grandmother living across the hall who enjoyed listening to music
from people who died years ago, and my twin brothers were just a few
of those problems. Not to mention my parents who liked to talk about
their latest surgery at the dinner table. It gave a great mental
image while eating, believe me. And Mr. Stilts was going to get mad
at me for saying my life was a purgatory. He had no idea.

"Remember,
I don't want any run-on sentences, please." There were a few
groans at this reminder and I had to smile. I may not have
understood the question at first, but I wasn't dumb enough to try a
run-on in an English class. Most of the 'apt pupils' were
pulling out their various forms of white-out and re-writing their
carefully thought out lives.

Without
caring who was done, Mr. Stilts began calling on random students to
read their answers. For some reason I seemed to be a favorite to
call on. Mr. Stilts had a cruel way of picking favorites. I
cringed. Half the class would think my answer was "totally
cool", while the better witted half would nod and think in subtle
contemplation, though in all actuality, wouldn't understand what in
the world I had just said. Mr. Stilts would quirk his eyebrow above
his thick-rimmed glasses and give that "you could have done better"
look. It was a typical look that everyone knew. I was so
concentrated on my comical mental image – at least to me it was
comical – that I didn't hear my name called.

"Miss
Schwepler." My name on his tongue, or on anyone's tongue, made it
sound worse.

I
strongly disliked my last name, another thing I was cursed with by my
parents. I mean, who invented last names anyway? And why did some
people get normal last names like Thompson and Holmes while I was
stuck with one that sounded like a brand name of Ginger Ale?

My
head shot up immediately. I didn't need to know from the
snickering who had been called. With a slight roll of the eyes I
repeated my answer aloud from my seat in the back. My mental image
unfolded in front of me and I almost laughed. Mr. Stilts frowned
slightly while offering a few words of encouragement I didn't pay
attention to. He then turned to the rest of the class.

"This
wasn't a question to be taken lightly, class." he said and
glanced in my general direction. "It was a thought-provoker," As
though anyone in this class would know what that means, I thought,
"and by some of your answers, you took it seriously. Now comes
your monthly project." Groans filled the room.

Secretly
I enjoyed monthly projects. They gave me an excuse to be in my room
for over two hours instead of having "family bonding time" with,
joy of all joys, my blessed family. Last month had been a study on
the life of a poet. We could choose any one we wanted, and most of
the no-brainers decided on Shakespeare. Not that I didn't like
Shakespeare, it's just everyone had chosen to write about him.
Thus I decided on some morbid poet whose name I forget, but he was
good. That could have been because half of his poems seemed to run
with my usual depressing theme. But, I had earned an A from the
project while the rest of the brainless were tossed B's and C's.
Some thought-provoker.

"For
the next month a half we'll be studying a topic as a class and then
writing a final essay on it. I've copied a series of poems and
short stories that we will analyze and then critique. I'll give
you a hint: we'll be looking at the Greek mythological god Eros,
and learning a little about Cupid. Anyone care to guess what it
topic is?"

I
glared at my book of "Greatest Poems from the Dead". It was
love. I knew it. Of all the topics of this world and the man had to
choose love! Love, I thought almost bitterly. I hated the word.
Whoever invented it was living in a room of padded walls. With that
I cringed and my whole train of thought twisted in utter agony. Love
was such a pernicious word. It brought things like children, thought
darkly. Whoever had said children were the best part of marriage was
on meds. Among children were soap operas, and Shakespeare and
western songs and the list could've gone on if I'd had the time.

A
boy answered it correctly and the class was a mix of funny looks and
excited squeals accompanied with clapping. I felt like dry heaving.
How could anyone in their right mind want to look deeper into love?
They would have to be of the 'normal' people…or poets. Not to
put a damper on those poets who are depressing and believe we are the
product of fate and society. I seemed to be one of them. Never in
my life had I ever been able to write romance. I believed love to be
a waste of time to pursue when it would – or should – come to you
by a twist of something akin to fate. My mother believed that I
would join a convent in Siberia when I'd first said this, but she
got married at nineteen so I can't exactly blame her. Over the
past couple years she seemed to accept my dark cynical view of the
annoying explosion of hormones.

My
thoughts returned once more to what Mr. Stilts had to say – "…don't
want you flaking out on this project. It's going to be worth forty
percent of your project grade for this year. If you put it off until
the last minute, I'll know and will mark you accordingly." Ah,
the all-knowing English teacher strikes a mighty blow, "…and I'll
also need an explanation of your essay – why you feel the way you
do about it. If you don't like this topic, please tell me why you
think this way."

The
bell rang and I sighed as I shoved pens into my case and my binder
into my mixed up backpack. It had a million patches and pins on it –
"hardly recognizable" were the words my mother used. My favorite
class had just turned into my most-hated, unless it gave me a new
view of it, which I highly doubted. New perspectives were always
welcomed in my mind; unless they were so utterly unconvincing that
only a three-year-old would agree with it. I shoved the rest of my
books into my bag except for my "Greatest Poems from the Dead"
book and headed to my locker.

I
believe my teachers, parents, and my principal had a special
meeting when they planned for my locker. Instead of the normal place
just down the hall or close to the office, my locker was the farthest
away from everyone, and right beside the Student Counselor's
office. My principal, when questioned, smiled at me and laughed –
then he disappeared back into his office. I didn't understand the
man, nor did anyone else, but I didn't exactly mind being exiled
from the rest of the hallway. At least I didn't have to deal with
people who found it enjoyable to lean against random lockers and
block everyone from their paraphernalia. Only new people would be
assigned next to me, and I was sure I could easily ignore them, or
cause them to move due to my utterly sweet nature. You would
think that I have no friends, I thought wryly, shoving books into
my locker's messy innards.

"Bray-den!"
My stomach roiled, and I winced at the sing-song-y voice of my
sister, April. She was older than me by one year and ever since I
had been born we'd hated each other.

I
turned slightly, noticed her bright pink sweater that ended below her
shoulders, and went back to my locker, pretending that it was more
interesting than the ditz standing next to me. "You wish to speak
to me in public? Wouldn't that ruin your precious reputation?"
It would have to be for a good reason or she wouldn't have been
there.

"I
just wanted you to tell mom and dad that I'll be at the library
until five or six because I have a math study meeting thing."

I
turned to study her with a blank stare. Her flawless face was
completely…smiling. I laughed – my sister wouldn't study if
her blond head depended on it. I swear, when she popped out, she had
a tube of lip gloss and comb stuck to her hands. Either there was a
cute geek she was crushing on, or she was going elsewhere. I guessed
the latter.

"Sure,
but if dad asks where you are and doesn't believe my first excuse,
I might have to make one up – like intelligent aliens mistook you
for their long-lost dog." The last excuse she'd made up was "We
weren't necking, mom, he was whispering me a secret!" I had no
doubt that her next one would be just as undeniably convincing. Guys
seemed to like her low I.Q., however – among other things, which I
would never understand.

She
smiled a glossy-lipped smile worse than a Barbie figurine and left
the way she'd come. I made a disgusted face and headed for another
mundane class of Math Honors. This produces a real "geek" image
for me, doesn't it?

I
was sort of a geek; however there were severe differences
between me and what you would call a geek. If you had the guts to
call me such a name I wouldn't take offense, although I would have
advised you to lock your windows. Worse names had been whispered and
thrown at me from the safety of the hallway, none of which I will
repeat. "Brayden the Geek Girl" will suffice. It wasn't that
I was smart; I just grasped the normal concepts better than the rest
of the vapid plebeians who cared more about that one pimple on their
forehead.

The
rest of my day seemed to drag on as it usually did. English seemed
to have dampened my day completely, along with my usual self-dosage
of euphoria. My greeting when I got home was no help either.

My
grandmother sat there as well, doing a crossword in a book, one of
many. Colton ran into the room in outrage and smacked Devon across
the head. At this, Devon smacked him back. This went back and forth
for awhile, their bright blonde hair flying at each smack. When God
had created siblings, I believe they were meant to come out in the
form of one screaming human being, not two. One pain was enough,
especially if they happened to be six and three quarter years
younger. Somehow, He made a mistake with me, however. Thus Colton
and Devon popped out screaming and wailing at the same time after
almost two days of labor to terrorize my life until I was old enough
to run away. I still didn't believe my parents when they said
someday we'd be friends. It wasn't humanly possible for me to
become friends with animals, unless I was suddenly given the
capabilities of Doctor Dolittle.

"Ow!
I'm telling, you pig face!" Devon yelled after about the third
smack.

"At
least I'm not as ugly as you!" Colton bit back, failing to
realize they were identical twins.

My
grandmother looked up from her crossword, a frown puckering her
mouth. "Kids, be clean and creative with your words," she said as
though her voice were stern.

I
blinked at the whole scene that had just gone on. Sometimes I had to
remind myself that I was adopted just appease my doubts. Call it
self-denial if you wish. Sad to say, it was only half of my family.
The other half was picking apart people's bodies, quite interesting
to put it literally.

"How
was your day, Puke Eyes?" Devon asked after he'd given up
in finding a good name for his twin, his blue eyes gleaming.

I
glared at him. My eyes were turquoise, but they were a strange
version of turquoise. This immediately was defined as puke-colored
as soon as the twins reached the age where their vocabulary consisted
of anything unsanitary. Hence my fabulous nickname.

"About
as great as the day you were born," I replied, stealing a cookie
from him and retreating to my room two floors up.

The
house was divided into four floors. There was a basement, main
floor, second floor, and third floor. I lived in what would have
been the attic, but my parents had decided to make me into an
everyday Cinderella. The room was fully finished and comfortable,
and far enough away from the zoo downstairs that I could enjoy peace
and quiet, for the most part. At times it didn't seem far enough
away from the chaos that often ensued.

You
might have already figured something out about my brothers and
sister. Besides the fact I'm the only "normal" one, we're
all alphabetically named, in order by when we were born: April,
Brayden, Colton, and Devon. Maybe my parents were morbidly cruel,
maybe they were addicted to Sesame Street, or maybe they needed a way
of remembering who their kids were; either way, I thought it was
strange. That and the fact I was cursed with a boy's name. What
kind of girl is named Brayden? My theory was that parents
expected a boy and when they found out it wasn't true they didn't
feel like coming up with a normal girl's name like normal people.
Of course, I could have come out with some oddly sadistic name like
Bertha or Betty or Baby Cakes so I guess I should be counting my
blessings. In any case, my name stood.

Brayden
Anne Schwepler – the 'Anne' was an excuse for feminine taste –
whose last name could be a brand of ginger ale and whose eyes looked
like puke. I glanced in my mirror for a minute and was reminded by
my small ego that they were indeed turquoise. My body was still
stuck in third grade, thin and stringy, but still only five foot one
and a quarter inches. Short black hair that was longer in front and
short in back hung in front of my face, possibly to hide the eyes,
while my complexion was clear and slightly olive. I was surprised
that the mirror didn't shatter into a million pieces at the sight
of me. Who in the world had puke/turquoise eyes? Was it something
my mother had eaten – perhaps her own cooking? Had my parents
genetically engineered me to have puke/turquoise eyes to coincide
with my weird name and shoe size, which happened to be three and a
half? I shrugged at my self-absorbed thought and, instead of
pressing play on my CD player, pressed the button that turned on the
radio.

I
hated the radio. Whoever had invented the stupid thing was probably
frowning at its uses. Music all day with a billion stations and all
anyone got in our town was pop music and Britney Spears' new
single: "I'm A Slut and I Can Cry If I Want To". I didn't
think any of her fans would kill me for that comment due to its
truthfulness. In any case I turned it off after a few short,
disgusted seconds, and put on a band called Stutterfly. Having and
liking bands that no one knew of were way better than any Britney
Spears single. It gave me a chance to see people's faces screw up
in concentration as they went through the Top 40 and attempted to
place the band, creating my amusement for the day.

My
homework was finished in less than an hour and I settled against my
crazy mismatch of pillows to write a poem – morbid and depressing,
of course. I'd never been able to not write something
morbid and depressing. Perhaps this was because of the fact that I'd
seen "Schindler's List" before I was five or that I was
naturally cynically sarcastic, if that was something one inherited
naturally. My notebook was getting full – I'd have to buy a new
one. My hand began to write about a serial killer's spirit that
came to my town and lived next door in a spindly, run-down old house.
Not like that was true, but it could've happened in such a small
town as mine.

Reichton.
It sounded like something you sneezed. A population of almost fifty
thousand and everyone knew that Mrs. Kramer was better than any old
tabloid. In fact, the town bingo palace was the busiest, thriving
business out of everything. This fact alone could have destroyed my
will to live, but there were a few places where teens could hang out
without the prying eyes of old people. My candy store was one of
them. Another, more "mature" place was in small, old basement
below an office building. It was called The Fridge and had a coffee
bar and a Poet's Night. I swore I would die before going there to
sip legal addictive stimulants and listen to people who talked about
butterflies. This wasn't me being negative; I'd actually
experienced it, thankfully only once.

As
the song changed to the next one I could vaguely hear my grandma's
old Beatles song from her room across the hall. My constant serenade
throughout the night – the only way she could sleep. Elvis and the
Beatles were her favorites. If they really had lived in a
yellow submarine, I wished they'd stayed there and died from lack
of oxygen. It would have saved my life less pain. I already lived
with weird parents who called each other Boo and Bunny. You'd have
thought they should've belonged to some Yacht club for stuffy
millionaires.

"Hey,
Puke-head! There's some guy selling chocolates at the door! Can
we buy some?" Devon yelled from two floors down. I wished I could
remind him that his voice was too high-pitched to yell, but I
considered myself more mature than that.

Calmly
I opened my door and went down the three sets of stairs where he
stood, swinging on the banister. My eyebrow rose slightly. It was a
sister trademark. All sisters could give the eyebrow. "Who let you
open the door?"

Devon
shrugged, unable to stay in one place for less than one second. "I
want candy, and so does Colton!"

I
observed his slightly chubby face, "Believe me, that's the last
thing you need. You'll become some acne face when you reach Junior
High and people will call you weird names."

"Like
you?" He liked to hit my sore spots and then grin about it. Junior
High hadn't been my most favorite three years of hell. "C'mon!
The guy's waiting!" The corners of his mouth were still encrusted
with chocolate from his cookies.

With
a sigh I opened the front door wider than its two-inch space and was
met with the most bizarre sight known to man, or at least, to me.

Picture
a classic garage-band-type boy with black hair tipped royal blue in a
skater-ish 'slightly messy, but gelled' look, black pants, and a
black shirt that said something about some metal band from the
seventies. Next to him was a little boy with round doe eyes and dark
brown hair in scout uniform holding a box, and wearing a timidly
curious face. The two were so completely opposite, they reminded me
of Abbot and Costello.

"Sorry,
kids. Halloween is still about five months away," my face was
disbelieving but still unlaughing. "How much for your candy?"

The
punk smiled slightly in that
'that-was-sort-of-funny-but-I'm-humoring-you-because-I'm-more-mature'
way and looked down at the little boy as though to encourage him.
The little boy, in turn, looked up at me. Did I look psychic? Or
perhaps there was a pamphlet with all the prices on my forehead. He
still smiled up at me shyly, maybe hoping I could read it on his face
where he had written in white Magic Marker.

"Three
bucks," the punk informed me finally.

Devon
spoke before I could. "Whoa! Three bucks for a dumb ol' candy
bar? I could buy a Pokemon card for that!" And with that simple
statement he went back inside to terrorize Colton. I almost pulled
him back so he could apologize but he slipped out of my finger reach.
Great, he had left me to clean up his disastrous hit-and-run with
words.

The
little boy looked ready to tear up and that little pang of guilt
became slightly bigger. I detested emotion. My stupid little
brother really had a handle on his words – probably from me. I
looked down at him once more and rolled my eyes. "I'll buy one,"
I said, hoping to smooth things out. I didn't want some punk
blue-haired bloke stalking me because I didn't buy a candy bar from
his brother, or whatever he was.

Suddenly
the almost-waterfall stopped and the little boy rubbed his runny nose
on his sleeve. That act alone almost brought me to say no again, and
I stifled the urge to visibly grimace. Little boys could be so
gross, and the sad thing is they never grew out of that stage, they
just hid it better. The punk, however, deterred me from this.

"Hold
on." I paid them, and took the chocolate without touching the
youngster's grimy fingers, and shut the door, hoping to sneak the
bar to my room safely.

Colton
and Devon were playing Super Mario on their N64 and wouldn't have
noticed me if I'd yelled "Fire!" Brainless generation they
were becoming. Pretty soon the government would be forced to issue
subliminal messages into the games so at least they'd be capable of
some knowledgeable thought. I watched Colton's mushroom dude bash
some caterpillar thing a few times before it made a 'bang' noise
and flew into coins. The boys simultaneously turned to each other
and grinned before staring back at the screen. What was the point
of video games again? I wondered.

I
decided not to let my brain get sucked in from mindless contemplation
over a feebleminded game and went back to my room. Perhaps the
chocolate bar in my hand would be the inspiration to the next poem
written by the great poetic genius of…Brayden.

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